


more to become than I knew I could be

by the_ragnarok



Series: cat!Jon [13]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Half-Siblings, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Martin Blackwood's Poetry, Offscreen Deadnaming, Parent Death, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Stimming, Trans Martin Blackwood, internalized ableism, sensory issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Jon realizes he might be autistic. Freaking out ensues. Martin discovers he has more family than he thought.
Relationships: Jon Sims/Martin Blackwood
Series: cat!Jon [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622008
Comments: 268
Kudos: 556





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Hiri for helping me figure out the plot progression!

The birthday party seems to be a success. Martin's surrounded by people, flushed and smiling widely, animated. For that, Jon can hang on for a few more hours.

He's startled when Helen comes up to him, accompanied by one of the strangers they invited. "Do you have anywhere quiet for Mike to sit? He's a bit overloaded."

"There's the bedroom," Jon says. He doesn't much like the idea of some stranger in there, but Mike is so tense that even Jon can tell.

Anyway, Jon can relate. He can feel himself relaxing when the bedroom door closes behind them, the cut-off noise like a removal of physical pressure.

"Thanks," Mike says, a bit hoarse.

Jon shrugs. "Mind if I stay? I'll be quiet." He eyes the door with some guilt. But apart from this, nobody has needed him for the last two hours. Martin knows the flat like it's his own, by now, anyway.

Mike shrugs right back at him. He sits down on the floor and rummages in his bag, pulling out colorful squares of patterned paper. He puts one in front of himself and begins to fold. Jon finds himself staring as Mike works, the motions quick and practiced, hypnotizing.

Out of the paper, a shape emerges: Jon blinks and realizes it's some kind of winged animal - not a bird, it has four legs. It's purple. Mike sets the completed beast aside and picks up a green, diamond-patterned paper.

Mike makes four more winged animals before noticing Jon is looking at him. He tilts his head and offers him a piece of paper.

"I don't know how," Jon mumbles.

"I'll show you."

That sounds rather agreeable. Jon slides down to the floor and accepts a pink polka-dotted paper. He watches Mike's movements more closely, and Mike waits to see that he's following along before continuing. Five minutes later, Mike has another animal, and Jon has something decidedly wonky.

"What is it?" Jon asks. Then he cringes slightly. That was rude, wasn't it?

Mike doesn't seem to mind. "Pegasus."

Ah, that rather makes sense. Mike offers him another piece of paper, a navy one, and Jon takes it.

About two horses later, Mike asks, "Do you want to see how to make a triceratops?"

Jon nods. "Did you know there is a theory that triceratops skulls were the source of the gryphons myth?" Even as he says the words, he feels embarrassed with himself. Nobody cares about stupid trivia he's picked up on the internet.

To his surprise, Mike says, "Huh, I didn't know that. Why?" At which point, Jon has no choice but to whip out his phone and search out pictures of dinosaur skeletons, with a small foray into elephant skulls and cyclopes.

* * *

Mike is telling Jon about paper making when suddenly he stiffens and pulls out his phone. "Ah, crap," Mike says. "I have to go home. Early night."

Jon nods, and hopes he hadn't bored Mike too much. "Have a safe trip home."

Mike nods. "Really wish I could have stayed longer, but I have an appointment tomorrow, to get my diagnosis. WIsh me luck!" He drums on his thighs.

"Which diagnosis?" Jon says slowly.

"Autism," Mike says, casually, like it's nothing. "I mean, I've known I'm autistic for ages, but it's not like the NHS will just take my word for it."

Jon is glad he's sitting down. He feels dizzy. "How did you know?" The question is out of his mouth before he quite registers his intention to ask it.

"You know, the usual." At Jon's blank look, Mike elaborates: "Sensory processing issues, that feeling like everyone got handed a guide to humanity when they were teenagers except me, executive dysfunction. All that fun stuff."

Jon gives a wooden nod. He doesn't say anything else as he watches Mike make his farewells to the party guests, getting a solid hug from Martin on his way out.

* * *

While Jon is waiting for the database software to load, he looks into the diagnosis process for autistic people. Just out of idle curiosity.

As soon as the tab's loaded, he closes it, obscurely guilty. He doesn't need this. It's voyeuristic at best. What does it matter what the criteria for adult diagnosis are? He is clearly not autistic, and people can convince themselves they have anything after an hour on Google. He'd best get back to work.

After a solid minute of watching the progress bar be stuck on 99%, Jon re-opens the tab. He notices the software loaded ten minutes later, halfway through a questionnaire. He closes it, resolute that this will be the last time.

Later, he loses half an hour to reading about executive dysfunction, which he recognizes is somewhat ironic.

* * *

"I may need you to take my phone," Jon says as Martin enters his flat.

Martin is immediately alert. "What is it? Are you looking at comment sections again?"

Jon swallows. "Something like that."

Martin nods, sharp and decisive. "Alright. If you want to give me your phone, I'll keep it safe for you."

As he does, Jon has to swallow around a lump in his throat. What did he ever do to deserve Martin?

With his phone safely away, it's easy to feel free in his body, to let himself sprawl over the couch. Martin sits next to him, looking him over; looking, Jon realizes a second later, for signs of self harm. "It's not like that," he tells Martin.

"Okay," Martin says, sounding sceptic. He has his hands in his lap, palms up.

On a whim, Jon goes and swipes his cheek over those hands that have tended him again and again. 

Martin blinks. "I love you." His voice only trembles a little. "Do you want... do you want your blanket?"

 _Deep pressure can trigger relaxation by activating the parasympathetic nervous system._ The line springs to Jon's mind uncalled for, alongside a vivid memory of chewing on his pen as he read the article. He flinches.

Martin goes very still. "Jon? What's wrong?"

Jon freezes when he realizes he's rubbing aggressively at his temples, leaving scratches. He looks up at Martin and, heart pounding, says, "Would you hold me down?"

Martin looks at him with intense concentration. "Is that what you want?" Jon nods. "How do you want it?"

Jon deeply resents having to think right now, but at least if he's thinking about logistics he's not thinking about symptoms. "Just take my wrists. So I don't hurt myself without meaning to." The second sentence comes out as more of a mumble.

Martin seems to understand anyway. He grabs Jon's hands and holds them, tight and secure. Comforting.

_Treatment by deep pressure is very popular among people on the autistic spectrum._

This time, Jon is ready for the flinch, and he controls it. Martin notices something's wrong anyway. "Jon, do you need me to let go?"

Jon shakes his head. "Keep holding me unless I ask to be let go. Or, uh, tap your foot with mine." Martin is fairly insistent about nonverbal signals, which makes sense, since Jon can't always use words.

_Autism may be comorbid with selective mutism, a condition where the person cannot speak in certain situations._

Jon groans and shakes his head. "Can't my brain just stop already?"

Martin gives him a considering look. "I'm going to find something in my bag." He resituates them so he's holding both of Jon's wrists in one hand. With his newly freed hand, Martin rummages through his backpack, finally brandishing a tube of--

"Is that lotion?" Jon says.

"Yeah. Thought I'd put some on your hands."

Mystified, Jon says, "Be my guest." 

"I can only hold one of your hands at a time like this. Do you want me to tie up the other one?"

Jon shakes his head. He's still not sure what Martin is trying to accomplish, but it seems harmless enough to try.

Martin starts by smoothing the lotion into the back of Jon's palm, moving in calming circles. He rubs each finger individually, the gentle friction making Jon shiver. Martin moves to rub his wrist, rotating Jon's palm carefully as he goes.

"Other hand?" Martin says, and that's when Jon realizes he can't move.

It's a familiar feeling. He closes his eyes to keep out the baffling array of shapes that were his flat just a moment ago. To move his hand into Martin's he needs to have a solid comprehension of _hand_ , _move_ and _into_ , which at the moment he doesn't possess.

He does comprehend Martin, to his vast relief. He manages to nod when Martin asks if he can take Jon's hand. Martin's hand closing around his wrist feels like locking the door to his flat, like being able to breathe freely, watched only by friendly eyes. Jon allows himself to go liquid as Martin keeps hold of him.

For the next glorious, timeless eon, there are only Martin's hands on his, only Martin's voice murmuring reassurances which Jon doesn't quite parse.

He sinks halfway back to full consciousness when Martin says, "Let me know if you want to lie down."

Jon nods. He manages to raise the hand Martin isn't holding, and flap it a bit in the air. There's something itching in the back of his mind, like a mosquito he can almost hear buzzing, but it's far enough away that he can ignore it.

Martin understands him. "Shall I pick you up?" Jon nods. Martin scoops him up like he weighs nothing and holds Jon close all the way to the bed.

* * *

They're still on the bed, Jon insistently pushing his head into Martin's generous scritches, when Martin's phone rings. Martin stiffens and mutters, "Sorry, I'll turn it off."

"You can answer," Jon says. "I'm okay." He's more than okay, fitting correctly inside his own skin once more, drunk on touch and affection.

Martin gives him a doubting look. The phone rings again, and Martin grabs for it. "Hello?" His expression turns stony. "I don't go by that name anymore. My name is Martin Blackwood." He listens some more and tenses. "You're correct that that's my father's name." He closes his eyes, making agreeing noises, and finally says, "Alright. I'll be there." He hangs up and groans. "Fuck."

Jon, who gave him a little space during the call, scoots closer to indicate his availability for hugs. For clarity's sake, he also says, "I'm available for hugs," out loud. 

For once, Martin takes him up on it without triple checking that it's okay. "That was my father's lawyer. My father's dead. They're reading out his will on Tuesday, and I should come." 

Jon wraps his arms around Martin. "I'm sorry," he says, feeling small and inadequate. 

Martin snorts. "I'm not. The bastard was dead to me since he left us."

That doesn't stop Martin from crying a few silent tears into Jon's shoulder, but neither of them mention it.

* * *

"Thank you so much for coming with me," Martin says for the fourth time since they set out. "I know you don't like to take time off."

Jon shrugs. "Maybe it'll get HR off my back about unused vacation days."

Martin gives him a worried look, which morphs into deviousness. "You know, in a month I should have some days off school and work. Maybe we could go somewhere."

"Oh?" Jon is both wary and intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"

"Dunno. Scotland? There's some lovely villages. Rustic."

Before Jon can speak his opinion on this, or even form it, the train reaches their station, and they hurry to the exit.

They make it to the lawyer's office with five minutes to spare. Martin walks briskly up the stairs, Jon following, and then down a nondescript carpeted hallway. The lawyer's office is easily distinguishable, with its bronze plaque on the door, and a receptionist motions them to the room where the meeting is to be held.

There's already someone in the room: a man, white, dark-haired and youngish, and a woman in a smart pinstripe skirt next to him. They turn to them, and with some confusion, the man says, "Are you the lawyer?"

"No," Martin says slowly. "I'm Martin Blackwood. I'm here for the reading of Roger Livingstone's will."

The man and the woman exchange a look. "What's your relationship to Mr. Livingstone?" she says. 

Martin shrugs awkwardly. "He was my dad."

Silence falls on the room like a heavy blanket, except much less soothing and comfortable. 

Then the man smiles. He has the same smile as Martin, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Hi," he says. "I'm Toby. Livingstone. I guess... I'm your brother? Half brother?" The woman gives him an alarmed look. Toby doesn't seem to notice. 

Martin smiles back, cautious but genuine. "Half brother, yeah. Lovely to meet you." It doesn't feel like a platitude. 

Toby glances at the woman. "This is Angelica, my fiance." 

"Right! Right. Pleased to meet you, as well. That's Jon, my boyfriend." 

Angelica's smile seems a little strained, but she shakes both their hands. 

The lawyers arrive. There's a bit of a ruckus as they set about ascertaining that Martin is the same person addressed in Livingstone's will; Martin, prepared for this eventuality, came armed with copies of his birth certificate and records of legal name change. Finally, everything is settled and the will can be read. 

It's not a terribly long affair. Livingstone left half of his property to Martin, and the other half to Toby. It's a fair sum, and Martin's eyes widen as it's read out loud. 

When they leave the office, Toby and Angelica accompany them. "I'd love to get to know you," Toby says. "I've always wanted a brother." 

"Me too," Martin says, in a rush of breath; but his hand, clasped in Jon's, tightens hard for a minute.

* * *

On the train back, Martin sits across from Jon, rather than next to him. Jon tries to protest, but he can't hide that he's grateful to be given space. Today was a lot.

It was more for Martin, though. Martin needs him. Jon closes his eyes and furiously wishes he could, for once, act like an adult rather than a selfish child. 

Martin's voice pierces through his thoughts, soft as it is. "Thanks again for coming with me. Um. Sorry, I can't seem to stop saying that."

Jon opens his eyes. "Of course. You don't need to be sorry. I wanted to be with you."

Martin gives him a tremulous smile. "Still. I don't want you to overextend yourself. I know my party took a lot out of you. You've been a bit withdrawn since. And I'm grateful, more than grateful, but you don't need to push yourself into bad places."

The decision comes to Jon already made: he will not tell Martin about this newfound issue. Martin has enough to be contending with, and given the least hint that something is bothering Jon, Martin will completely ignore his own issues to help. "I want to help, and I haven't offered anything beyond my abilities," Jon says. "You have other concerns. Let me sort out my own limits."

"Of course." Martin sags back into his seat. "Oh my God. He was so nice to me! I thought they'd yell at me just for showing up! Can you believe it?"

"I believe you deserve much more than basic manners," Jon says quietly, and listens as Martin lets out the assorted emotions the day brought with it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today! The next one should be longer. Thanks to everyone who left comments, I love every single one of you in this bar <3

Of course, the problem with not telling Martin means that Jon can't ask him for help. This is a bigger problem than it would normally be, since every method Jon normally uses to calm himself down makes clinical descriptions of symptoms ring through his mind. 

And he desperately needs to calm down. The inside of his head feels like it's boiling. Since he'd arrived at the office this morning, not a single task had gone smoothly. If that's not enough, the fluorescent lights' incessant flickering makes him want to break every single bulb with his bare hands. 

_Hypersensitivity to stimuli that most people find unnoticeable--_

Jon snarls and slams his hand against the desk. 

He hears a squeak behind him, and looks around to see Sonja, his new employee, taking a step back, eyes wide. 

"Sorry," Jon mutters. God, he is the worst type of arsehole.

* * *

In the evening, alone in his flat, his mood only degenerates. 

Fuck. What's wrong with him? Or rather, it seems like for the first time in years, he has a name for what's wrong with him, but that doesn't fix it or make it okay.

Autistic. As though that was some excuse to be selfish and heedless of other people's needs, to be rude and demanding. 

_Why do you have to be so difficult?_ He hears the question in his grandmother's voice, and Elias'. A word, a label, doesn't answer that question. It doesn't explain why he always has to be _like this_. 

While Jon is still stewing, Martin calls. In Jon's mood, even that pricks at him: Martin knows Jon doesn't like talking on the phone. _Autistic people typically experience difficulty in certain types of communication._

Jon stabs the "answer" button with vengeance. "Yes?"

"Toby invited me to have coffee," Martin says, bursting with anticipation. 

"Lovely," Jon says shortly.

"Oh," Martin says, and Jon can hear him wilt. "I'm sorry. I didn't even ask if this was a good time."

Jon figuratively kicks himself, hard. Wasn't the whole point not to rain on Martin's familial parade? "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm a little tense today. I'm happy for you, truly."

Just like that, Martin is back to his high energy of earlier. "He said I should pick the place. I thought about maybe, you know the one I like? But I'm worried it's too cheap. He seems like a posh fellow, doesn't he?"

"A bit," Jon allows. 

"So I could pick the one next to the hospital, you know, we went there once and you said their creme brulee was good? But I don't know if he'll want desserts. Maybe he's watching his weight. Maybe he's diabetic!" Martin gives a little gasp. "Oh my God, what if he's vegan?"

"He'd've said," Jon says. "Or else it's not your fault you didn't guess. You're not a mind reader." His tone comes out clipped and harsh. 

"I suppose," Martin says, still in the throes of meetup planning. "Most places do vegan options these days, anyway, don't they? It's not as though I'm taking him to a kebab shop."

Jon quite likes the sound of Martin's voice. He's drifted off to it more than once. Right now, however, his head hurts. He needs not to deal with words anymore, and to hell with whatever the internet has to say about selective mutism. And Martin keeps babbling, anxious and unceasing.

Finally, Jon snaps, "Stop _fussing_!"

On the other side of the phone, there is silence. 

"Oh," Martin says, in a tone Jon can't read at all. 

Jon bites his tongue, literally, tasting copper. "If he doesn't like you because of some stupid cafe's dining options, that's his loss."

"...No, I can't say I agree with you there," Martin says, still in that odd tone. "I suppose I've taken up enough of your time. Goodbye, Jon." He hangs up without waiting for Jon to say his goodbyes, as well. 

Jon feels weird. His arms and his face are numb and stinging at the same time. He feels like a cartoon character startled into jumping out of his own skin. It takes him a moment to realize that the noise he's hearing is his own voice whispering, "No, no, no, no."

With a disgusted sound, he clamps his mouth shut. This is no time to be immature. 

He feels a little better as he sits down next to his computer. Or rather, he can't quite feel anything, which is a marked improvement. He considers working, but instead wastes some time playing Tetris online. The lines disappearing, one by one, sooth him a little. That's normal, isn't it? Everyone plays Tetris. 

When Jon's phone chirps, he straightens so abruptly he almost knocks his keyboard to the floor, and then does knock it over in his scramble to get his phone. He stands up and walks around it to the sofa, unlocking his phone with shaking fingers.

He nearly hurls the phone at the wall when he sees the notification isn't from Martin. It's not a text at all: it's a Facebook friend request. From some guy named Michael Crew. Jon almost deletes it before he makes the connection to Mike from the party. 

On accepting, a Messenger notification bubbles up. Mike has apparently sent him a few articles on ancient fabric dyeing techniques. Jon spends ten minutes looking up the tweet he'd found about a historical fiction author who accidentally mentioned ingredients from a video game in his book. Mike returns the salvo with a link to an Etsy shop featuring enamel pins of tiny gryphons, which are in fact adorable; Jon seems to remember he saw some origami pins somewhere, and he sends them to Mike. 

Eventually, Mike sends him, _gtg._ Jon blinks on realizing that that was the first exchange in their conversation that wasn't in the form of a link to something interesting. 

He breathes, feeling more clear-headed. He'd been an arse. He should write to Martin and apologize. Or, perhaps better, call him; but Martin might still be with his brother. He settles for recording a voice message, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Ah, this is Jon. Jonathan Sims. Which you probably know, because I'm in your contacts. I wanted to apologize. I was extremely rude, and you didn't deserve that." He swallows. Just saying "hug" seems presumptuous. "If you would like a hug, I am putting one here for you. If you don't want it, it will disappear. It is a self-destructing hug." 

Thankfully, the application cuts him off before he can make an even greater fool of himself.

* * *

Jon's trying to decide between trying to sleep and working when his phone chirps again. He's more cautious picking it up this time. 

It's a text from Martin. _ur a grumpy bastard. i love you tho. if i keep the hug, will it explode??_ He receives another one not ten seconds later. _Jonathan Sims why are you awake. go the fuck to sleep. i can see the blue check marks!!!_

 _I'm a grown man who can set his own sleep schedule,_ Jon writes, even as he gets ready for bed. _And I might point out that you're awake, as well._

_shh let me be two-faced in peace_

In the solitude of his flat, Jon hugs himself. There's nobody here to see him being silly. 

Maybe that's all he needs. Be autistic, if he must, but keep it quiet. Contained. Invisible to people who haven't signed up for dealing with it. Then he wouldn't have to explain, or bear anybody's response.

He feels the rightness of it settling into his heart, more solid the more he thinks about it. If he just manages to pass as normal, that's all he needs. The rest doesn't matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: brief panic attack


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to HirilElfwraith for looking this chapter over before posting!
> 
> As usual, CWs for this chapter are in end notes.

They're having sushi: Jon's treat, and for once Martin didn't argue, gracefully accepting the meal for the silent added apology that it is.

(Maybe sometimes Jon thinks about, someday, not having to discuss who's paying because the money will be _theirs_ , not held apart but in common. But the thought is too big, too shapeless to hold on to in his mind: it's like trying to grab water. Maybe if he could talk it out with Martin--

But on that notion, his mind goes white-hot and stops. Now isn't the time, anyway.)

"Toby wanted to meet again tomorrow," Martin says between bites, licking tiny fish eggs off his fingers. "It's the romp, though, so probably--"

"I won't be going," Jon says. His heart's hammering as he says it. What if Martin demands to know why? Jon had known for a long time that he shouldn't indulge himself so much, but Martin never liked this view or agreed with it. He doesn't want them to argue again. He adds, "Not feeling up to it," which is also true, as it happens.

Martin's expression flickers between dismay and hope. "I mean, I'd hate to miss a romp."

"It's not like you have family to spare," Jon says, and then winces at his own lack of tact. Christ.

Miraculously, Martin only says, "You're sure?" At Jon's nod, he brightens. "Cool. He told me he wanted to take me to a restaurant he likes. Apparently the seafood is to die for. Sounds pricy, but I'm doing well now, aren't I?"

Jon bites off financial warnings: don't spend the money before you have it, don't accustom yourself to living beyond your means. As though Jon doesn't enjoy a fish dinner every so often. Instead he says, "You never told me how your first meeting went."

Martin lights up. It's beautiful to see. "He is so lovely," he says. "He's a doctor, can you believe that? Angelica's a lawyer. His mum lives in France, she got divorced from my, my father," he only barely stumbles over the word, "years ago. He showed me pictures of her house; it's beautiful." Martin keeps going in that vein for a while, and Jon nods and asks questions.

There's a lot of information Jon knows he won't retain, but he knows what the important bits are: Martin likes Toby, and Toby appears to be nice to him. He had damn well better be.

"Oh - Toby invited me to dinner with him and Angelica, and asked if you wanted to come along," Martin says. "Do you want to?"

Carefully, Jon says, "Do you want me to?"

Martin snorts. "Of course I do, but not if you'd hate it."

"I couldn't hate it. You're there." To Jon, that's just a plain statement of fact, but Martin's eyes mist over. Jon isn't good with body language, never was - which is not something he wants to focus on right now - but he's come to recognize the way Martin's body opens up when he wants a hug. Jon delivers this, gratified when Martin's soft arms close around him.

* * *

Jon's a little startled when his phone chirps. Martin is usually occupied at this hour, and Georgie normally emails, which is a different notification sound.

It's Mike, with another link. It's to a Facebook post featuring a screenshot reading, _meeting a person you can infodump at:_ and a string of happy emojis. Mike follows that up with a _thx_.

Jon smiles, warmed. _It's my pleasure,_ he writes back.

He looks at the post again, and scrolls down when a cat picture catches his eye: a drawn one, a comic about meeting a stray kitty that demanded to be pet. Jon saves it to his phone, and is halfway to sending the picture to Martin before he gets self-conscious.

Below that, there are some memes Jon doesn't recognize or bother trying to, but then there's a picture of an opposum with a flower crown, and beneath it an extremely fluffy moth. Jon is warming up to this page. He scrolls up, then recoils at the page title: _Autistic memes for millennial (broken) dreams_. He closes the tab.

He reopens it and bookmarks it in a hidden folder. Nobody has to know.

* * *

Even beyond the rudeness of it, Jon regrets snapping at Martin for fussing about meeting Toby, since now he is in the very same position. He is rifling through his closet with increasing dismay.

Surely his work clothes should be fine: a button-down (black) and pressed trousers (dark grey). But Toby sounded well-off. More so than Jon, maybe. Would he expect Jon to wear a tie? A jacket? He considers asking Martin, but doesn't want to drag him into an anxious fit.

The alarm Jon set for fifteen minutes before he has to leave rings as he's furtively googling dress standards, which gives incredibly unhelpful advice. _Case by case basis,_ of course. Thank you for nothing, _Google_. He still hasn't showered, and the thought of facing Martin's half-brother in this state motivates him to go through the quickest shower he'd ever managed. On a half-second's thought, he puts on a waistcoat. You only have one chance at making a first impression, after all.

* * *

Martin greets him at the tube station wearing a burgundy button down and jeans. This is Jon's first clue of how the evening is going to go.

Toby and Angelica's flat is in Woodford Green, close to the tube station. The building where they live is newish, with a manicured lawn out front. Toby opens the door dressed the same as Martin. His eyebrows go up minutely when he takes in Jon's appearance, but he lets them in without a word.

Martin's smiling so brightly. Jon is determined not to mess it up, even as he's certain he already has.

Toby shows them to the kitchen, where Angelica leans against the counter. She, too, is wearing jeans and a blouse. She does comment on Jon's appearance: "Fancy."

"Thank you," Jon says, uncomfortable. He casts around for something to say, anything.

Martin rescues him by saying, "Toby says you have a dog?"

Toby's expression clears. He whistles. "Here, Baby!"

Jon manages to catch himself just before asking, _You named your dog Baby?_ as the spaniel comes running in, happily panting. Martin crouches and holds his hand out for the dog to lick. "She's beautiful," he says to Toby.

Baby chooses that moment to try and jump on Jon. He startles without intending to.

"Baby!" Toby scolds. "Heel." The little dog runs to his side.

Angelica arches an eyebrow at Jon. "Not a dog person?"

Jon tries not to bristle, and fails. "I prefer cats." In his experience, they're less likely to _jump_ on one before one is properly acquainted with them.

"I hope you like pasta carbonara," Toby says. "It's just about ready, you guys have a seat and I'll bring the food."

Jon goes to wash his hands, and Martin tags along.

When they come back, the plates are already heaped with steaming pasta, and Toby cracks an egg with a flourish unto one plate.

"What's the matter?" Martin asks, sotto voce.

Jon only realizes at that point that he flinched. "Nothing." He hastens to offer a smile he knows is too wooden. "Everything's fine." He tries not to look at the yolks sitting on top of the plate, glistening. He forces himself to breathe. Maybe he can just push it aside.

He watches furtively as everyone mixes up their pasta. So much for trying to nudge the yolk away. He'd probably burst it anyway. He mixes up the pasta, very careful not to spray any of the disgusting contents on himself.

"So, Jon!" Toby chooses that moment to try having a conversation. "Martin says that you... I quote, do something inexplicable with paperwork."

"That's basically it," Jon says. "I am a typical office drone." He eyes his pasta with some trepidation.

Angelica notices. "Is something the matter with your food?"

"No, of course not." Jon takes a deep breath, and regrets it as the scent of cheese, heavy cream, and egg combined makes him queasy. He rolls some noodles onto his fork and pops it in his mouth.

He doesn't vomit. He has that much to say for himself. He doesn't spit it out immediately, either: he swallows, and takes a great sip of water.

Martin doesn't miss this. "Jon?"

Jon flashes him a smile, and squeezes his hand under the table, willing Martin to let go of the issue.

Martin, bless him, changes the subject. "So, Angelica, Toby tells me you two moved to London five years ago. Where did you live before?"

The conversation rolls on a fair bit. Jon keeps quiet and doesn't eat. To his immense gratitude, nobody comments on this further. Angelica is telling amusing anecdotes from her job, which segue into Americans and their fondness for frivolous lawsuits. "And I read about a woman who sued Cap'n Crunch because she thought the crunchberries were a real fruit--"

"Oh, actually, I read about this," Jon says, caught up in the elation of being able to participate. "It wasn't that at all. She sued them for not having any fruit in their ingredients, as advertised. Their lawyers put out that rumor, but actually what she sued them for was very reasonable. Same goes for the woman who sued McDonalds for having hot coffee: she needed skin grafts."

He falls silent, and realizes everyone is staring at him. "Um. Perhaps that's not a good dinner conversation topic."

"Perhaps not," Angelica says, in a tone Jon can't read.

Jon stuffs his mouth with pasta, in hopes the second bite won't be as bad. Those hopes are dashed.

Toby and Martin continue the conversation after that, but it's a bit halting. Jon sits very straight, conscious of his posture, of his everything. When Angelica rises and asks, "Time for dessert?" he is relieved. She and Toby go to the kitchen.

He supposes he should be glad his stomach waited until then to protest the treatment to which he had subjected it. Martin looks at him, brow furrowed in concern.

Jon tries to smile. "Sorry. Not feeling well." He hesitates, and presses a tiny kiss to the space between Martin's eyebrows. He gets up. "I'll be right back."

On the way to the toilet, he walks by the closed door to the kitchen.

"--he's _weird_." It's Angelica's voice, in an intonation Jon is painfully, intimately familiar with. "If he didn't like the food, couldn't he have just said something? What was that entire production about? And interrupting me when I'm talking about my _job_. I don't want to say mansplaining, but..."

Jon cringes, heart beating fast. He needs to get going. He can't seem to move.

"Martin said he was awkward." Toby sounds pacifying. "That he takes a while to warm up to people. But Jon's important to him, and--"

"I know, I know." Angelica sighs. "You know I worry. It's just... a bit too good, you know? Suddenly your long-lost brother comes out of nowhere, and it just happens that his name isn't actually the one listed in the will."

"Angelica." Warning, now.

"I wouldn't even blame him. That fellow looks like he could use a few spare quid. But it is odd." A moment of silence, only some dishes pinging together. "I just don't want you getting hurt again."

Jon gives up and goes back to the table. "I'm really not feeling well," he tells Martin. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

"I'll come with," Martin says, but Jon shakes his head.

"Stay. Please. Someone needs to explain why I had to leave." Jon tries to smile, but he knows it looks awful on his face.

* * *

On the way back, Jon takes out his phone. He opens the document where he keeps fragments of Martin's poetry, typed from memory. Scrolls until he sees the one titled _out of the dark_. Reads, _They cast you down_ , and closes the file, unable to bear more.

Martin had written that for him. About him. Right now, Jon couldn't feel any less adequate or deserving if he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Heavy second-hand embarrassment throughout the dinner scene   
> \- Sensory issues + food, a character forcing themselves to eat something they find disgusting  
> \- Jon has a really bad time and no comfort yet  
> \- Have I mentioned a heaping pile of internalized ableism? yeah. That. Also some non-internalized garden variety ableism. 
> 
> Summary of the dinner scene, for people who are squicked by second-hand embarrassment: 
> 
> Jon and Martin go to dinner at Toby and Angelica's place. Jon is overdressed. Martin pets a dog. They are served food which Jon is strongly averse to. He eats it anyway but has a hard time hiding his aversion. He interrupts Angelica to infodump when she's talking about legal things (which is her job), which is taken as mansplaining. Later Jon overhears Toby and Angelica talking about him - Angelica is suspicious of Jon and Martin, while Toby wants to think the best of them. Jon leaves.


	4. Chapter 4

Jon feels like shit for only telling Martin he’s not coming an hour before they were supposed to meet Toby and Angelica for the second time, but it’s the only way. If he'd told Martin in advance, Martin would have wanted to know why not, and as was just proven Jon is a terrible, terrible liar. Martin would get the truth out of him, and then where would they be?

This would be worse than Martin ignoring his own issues in favor of Jon’s: this might mean Martin fighting with Toby. Jon doesn’t want that to happen over him. Martin shouldn’t have to choose. It’s just… tidier, if Jon removes himself from the situation.

The crushed disappointment in Martin’s voice, when Jon calls to cancel on him, still feels like a kick in the gut. Jon can’t help but feel like he deserves it. To twist the knife, Martin follows it with, “Is this because I didn’t check in advance they were making something you could eat? Because this time--”

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” Jon says. “You were wonderful. I’m just not feeling up to dealing with strangers for an evening.” That’s true enough that Martin shouldn’t spot how partial it is. 

Martin accepts this, if only because he has to get organized.

Jon tries to tell himself it's better this way, even if Martin can't see that. Better for Martin to meet his family without the interference of his weird boyfriend. Jon doesn't want to be a distraction. 

Speaking of distraction, he better get up and do something before he'll spend the rest of the evening moping. The flat could use some cleaning. That'll be a productive use of his time. 

As he looks through his cleaning products, he comes across the almost full bottle of bleach and hesitates. He'd used it once, but the scent of it was too much even when he'd aired out the flat for hours. 

This kind of self indulgence must be the reason he'd gotten so odd to begin with. Jon grimly pulls out the bleach. He does then proceed to open all the windows: he has no desire to poison himself. 

He starts with the kitchen. The sink is clear already, and attacking it with bleach is oddly pleasing even as the fumes scorch Jon's lungs and make his eyes sting. There is dull satisfaction to spilling bleach-laced water on the tile floor, knowing the scent of it will stay for hours. Jon's hands redden and smart as he scrubs obscure corners. 

His phone chirps just as he's done with the kitchen and intended to continue to the bathroom. Jon washes his hands and checks it. Martin might need him. 

It's not Martin; it's Mike, with a link to a video about making chainmail jewelry. Jon bites his lip. _That seems very interesting. I'm cleaning now, but I'll watch it later._ He worries that he sounds too abrupt. 

_nw_ , Mike replies. It takes Jon a moment to parse that as "No worries." Mike proceeds to send him another posted screenshot, this time with the text, "if I send you a meme, don't apologise if you can't look at it right now, it's a gift for later." 

Despite himself, it makes Jon smile. He thanks Mike, feeling it genuinely. 

_good luck cleaning. hate doing it myself, urgh sensory hell_

In a burst of honesty, Jon writes, _Yes, it's rather unpleasant. I hate the smell of bleach._

Mike replies with a series of exclamation points, and then three different links to articles about bleach alternatives. 

Jon flops down to the sofa. _What's the use?_ he writes. _I can't even clean my flat like a normal person. I don't know how you stand it._

Mike starts and stops typing several times. Finally he writes, _if were having feels can we skype. u can keep typing but i gotta speak_. He follows this with a Skype contact link. 

Jon doesn't exactly mean to click it, or so he tells himself as he listens to Skype's ringtone. 

Mike picks up in a few seconds. He doesn't bother with preliminaries before saying, "Look, I've been here before. I can tell you how I got out of it. No promises it'll help you, but we can try."

Jon only nods, wordlessly. 

“So correct me if I’m wrong, but what I’m getting is that you feel ashamed of what you can and can’t do.” Mike hesitates. “I don’t know if you’re autistic, but I have to say, I get that vibe off you.”

Jon flinches. He types, _Is it that obvious?_ trying to ignore the relief of not having to speak out loud.

Mike shrugs. “You definitely ping my a-dar. I wouldn’t know how obvious it is to neurotypicals, and maybe I’m wrong anyway.”

Jon closes his eyes and struggles to even his breathing. The pervasive smell of bleach everywhere makes it worse.

Mike’s eyes widen. “You were using bleach, weren’t you? Maybe first thing, go somewhere where you can breathe. Air’s important.”

The image of Martin’s flat springs to Jon’s mind, the flat he has a key to. He shakes his head and ignores this for now. _Yes, I am ashamed. How can I not be?_

Mike taps his finger against his lips. “Could you walk to France?”

Jon doesn’t see what this has to do with anything, but he writes, _Given sufficient time and supplies, I suppose so._

“Right. But if someone told you to get to France by tomorrow, and you couldn’t get a train ticket or anything, it wouldn’t be reasonable to expect you to get there, would it?” He flaps his hands. “My point is, everyone has limits. Everyone.”

Jon starts hugging himself, stops, and then does it anyway. Does it really matter if he humiliates himself further? Then he types, _Yes, but mine are… weird._

“Okay, but that’s what I’m saying. What makes a limit weird? Is it weird to, I don’t know, be allergic to strawberries? Some people are, most aren’t, and that’s okay. A pretty small percentage of the global population lives in London, does that make living in London weird?” He wrinkles his nose. “Okay, maybe so. But so _what_?”

Jon tries to grasp for words. He couldn’t speak now if he tried. _So I’m reflecting badly on everyone who loves me by being selfish._

“Mm. I’m sorry - that’s expressing-sympathies-sorry, not apology-sorry. That’s not a fun place to be, emotionally. But here’s the thing: if those people really love you, they know you’re not being selfish, any more than you would be to refuse to eat foods you’re allergic to. And if someone doesn’t think well of them for that, that reflects badly on that someone, not on you, or them.”

_Allergies could kill me,_ Jon argues. _This can’t._

“Allergies can just mean your mouth itches after,” Mike counters. “You still get not to eat food that makes you feel bad.”

That’s too close to the memories of the other night. Jon folds in his chair, breathing shallowly.

“That seemed to hit,” Mike says. “Do you want to dig into it, or leave it alone?”

Jon desperately wants to talk about anything, anything else, but he has a feeling like he’s found a lead. _Keep going._

“You get not to eat food that makes you feel bad,” Mike repeats. “You get to breathe air that doesn’t hurt. You get to move in ways that feel good.” Jon starts rocking in place, ashamed and doing it anyway. “You get to _not be in pain_.”

With a shuddering gasp, Jon sits back up. _I can’t believe it,_ he writes. _I want to. I can’t._

“Okay,” Mike says equably. “This stuff gets drilled into our brains our entire lives. It makes sense if I can’t uproot it in a conversation. But I hope that gets you thinking.” He shifts. “And would you do me a favor?”

Jon manages to say, “What?” out loud. His throat hurts. 

“Go somewhere where the air isn’t contaminated. Okay? I don’t want Martin asking why I broke his boyfriend.”

That gets a painful chuckle out of Jon. “Okay.” He doesn’t think Mike has any responsibility for how broken Jon is, but he doesn’t think saying this right now would be terribly helpful. “Thank you.”

“Just paying it forward,” Mike says, cryptically, and hangs up without another word. 

Jon shakes himself and stands up. He texts Martin as he gets organized: he has standing permission to be in Martin’s flat whenever, but it’s only polite to check.

He sees Martin start to type after he sends his message, and hangs on for a moment in case Martin asks him not to come over. Unusually for Martin, he takes ages typing out the text, to a degree where Jon begins to worry.

Finally, the text from Martin appears. _please. i don’t want to be alone._

All other thoughts are wiped from Jon’s mind. He puts on his coat and shoes at record speed, and is out of the house in less than two minutes.

* * *

He finds Martin curled up on the sofa and crying. Jon sits besides him and tentatively opens his arms: Martin crawls to him and melts against him, solid in Jon’s arms. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Martin sniffles. “They were so lovely. I don’t understand why I’m like this.”

Jon tightens his hold on Martin. There’s a lot he doesn’t know, but he’d learned by now how to do this. “I’m sorry.” He adds, “The sympathy kind, not the apology kind.”

Martin lets out a watery chuckle. “Been talking to Mike, have you?” Jon shrugs. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Why don’t you tell me about the dinner?” Jon suggests. 

Martin obediently recounts the generals. Jon nods and makes listening noises, trying to sift through the data Martin gives him like he does at work, trying to spot the indiscrepancies. 

One crops up early on. “They asked you why you’re not a doctor?” Jon asks incredulously.

Martin shifts, uncomfortable. “It makes sense, for people who aren’t familiar with nursing.”

“It’s sexist and classicist,” Jon says flatly. Even the advice column said so. “Nursing’s an incredibly important job, not some second string to doctorhood.”

“Oh,” Martin says, low. “I suppose you have a point.” He shivers. “Toby’s a doctor.”

“So what?” Jon says, with a mild sense of déjà vu. “Would you prefer to be a doctor?”

“No!” Martin says fiercely. “I love my job, you know I do. Just… I don’t know.” He collapses further against Jon’s side. “It’s just that everything about him is so perfect, you know?”

Jon feels like he’s split in two, half of him understanding exactly what Martin means, the other half objecting quite strenuously. “Perfect how?”

“You know.” Martin gesticulates. “With his job and his posh flat and his fiance. He even has a dog.”

_Maybe we could get a dog someday,_ Jon doesn’t say. He may prefer cats, but he’s been friends with a number of canines in his life. He doesn’t want to distract Martin, however. “Would you prefer to be engaged to someone like Angelica?”

Martin recoils. “God no! I wouldn’t trade you being in my life for anything.” He sniffs. “Engagement might be nice.” He turns bright red. “Um. Forget I said that.”

Jon has no intention of doing that, but he realizes that now is not the time. 

“Maybe if I was the kind of person who prefers to be a doctor, my dad would have stuck around,” Martin says in a tiny voice. Jon fills in the rest as well: if Martin were straight, if he were cis. 

Mike’s points from earlier make a much more visceral sense to him right now, because he would rather like to set on fire anyone who made Martin feel bad for who he is. “If that’s true, then your dad is scum,” he says. “And in any case I doubt it is. How old is Toby? Twenty five?”

“Six.”

“And you just turned thirty. Your father left when you were twelve.”

Jon watches Martin blink. “Oh,” he says shakily. “He must have been carrying on with Toby’s mum for years, while he was still married to my mum. I feel stupid now.”

“I think you just can’t imagine betraying someone like that,” Jon says quietly. “No wonder it didn’t occur to you.” He holds onto Martin tight, tight, like he can keep him in one piece if he just tries hard enough. 

For a few minutes, he lets Martin cry uninterrupted, only kissing the top of his head every so often. Finally Martin raises his blotchy face. “I think part of the issue,” he says, sitting up, “is that I’m older than him and I’m not even a nurse yet, just a student. Makes me feel like a failure.”

Jon holds his gaze. “Did Toby have to drop out of high school to be a caregiver?”

Martin squirms, but says, “No.”

“Toby has had money and support. You didn’t. And you still got to where you are, and that’s amazing.” A thought occurs to Jon. “Wait a second, I need to look at something.”

Martin sits all the way up and stares, eyebrows bunched, at Jon as he rummages through Martin’s bookcase. He finds his prize soon: the bound book of Martin’s poetry. Jon glances at the index at the end, flips to the relevant page, and reads:

“They cast you down. And from that darkened pit  
You climbed out, struggling, fire-torn and bare,  
The misery of lifetimes in your stare,  
The burn-scars bright on skin too tight to fit.

I happily would kiss those bloody hands  
That carried you from suffering and pain,  
The hurting of your history that marked

You, sign on sign, and scar on scar again.  
You came so far to reach the place you stand.  
You don't deserve to stay down in the dark.”

Martin stares at him with eyes gone glassy. “That’s about you,” he whispers. “I wrote that for you.”

Jon holds his gaze, determined. “And it’s just as true for you.”

Martin blinks. “Are you crying?”

Jon wipes at his face, surprised to find wetness there. “I appear to be,” he says, slow and confused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distract--”

Martin sits up straight. “Oh God, I knew there was something going on with you. I’m so sorry. And that _is_ an apology. I should have known.”

Jon shuts his eyes. “I didn’t tell you on purpose. Because I _knew_ you’d do this. Completely ignore whatever’s going on with you so you can help me.”

“You mean, like you just did?” Martin snorts. His expression softens. “Come here?” Jon comes, setting into Martin’s lap. “Just give me an outline, okay? And then we can return to my being a sad sack.”

Oh, fuck. Jon looks up to meet Martin’s expectant gaze, so compassionate. Jon would do anything for him.

Even this. “I think,” he whispers, “I might be autistic.”

Martin blinks again, and once more. “That’s…” he starts laughing weakly. “Sorry! Sorry, I swear I’m not laughing at you. Oh my God, Jon, for a minute I thought you were gonna tell me you have a terminal disease.” 

“Not terminal, maybe,” Jon says, “but not something curable, either.”

“Hey.” Martin’s voice turns serious. “Autistic or not, you’ve been that way since we met. You’re the man I love, and whatever you are, you’ve been that way all along. You know I think you’re wonderful.”

As hard as it is to believe, Jon does know that. “I do,” he says, with a little wonder. He puts two fingers under Martin’s chin. “And you are, too.”

“Sappy,” Martin says softly, eyes crinkling in a smile.

Jon puts his unoccupied hand’s fingers to his own mouth, then to Martin’s. “I must have caught it from this person who keeps writing me poetry.”

Martin crushes him into a hug, then lets go abruptly. “Sorry, sorry--”

Jon grabs him back in a hug just as fierce. “Don’t be.”

“I love you,” Martin whispers. “I love you so, so much.”

Jon kisses Martin on the cheek. He thinks it communicates what he means to say well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- oblique self harm through deliberately inducing sensory hell  
> \- some very heavy conversations  
> \- poetry


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to code16 for helping me troubleshoot this chapter, and to Dathen and Fushi for helping me think it out.

“...but it’s hard,” Martin says. He’d been talking for a while, intermittently. 

Jon had to break off the hug earlier on, but now he moves to headbutt Martin’s shoulder, unthinking. He freezes as soon as he makes contact.

Martin holds his open hand to Jon, palm up. “If you want to be a cat, that’s okay. And it’s okay if you don’t.” He still has tears drying on his cheeks, but then again, so does Jon. 

Abruptly, Jon is just so tired. Tired of holding himself so tightly restrained, of hiding himself - from Martin, of all people. He has to trust that Martin will say if he’s not up for cat-wrangling. He twists to lie down on the sofa, head resting in Martin’s lap. Martin’s hand is heavy and perfect on the nape of his neck, and Jon gives a happy shudder. 

It feels right. How could he ever have resisted anything that feels so right?

Martin keeps talking, and for a moment Jon struggles to listen, to follow along. Then Martin smooths his hand down Jon’s back, and says, “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let go. I’m here.”

Thoughts of selfishness melt away. All thoughts do, and Jon closes his eyes and basks in the warmth of Martin’s body.

Some time later, the repetitive petting is beginning to feel unpleasant, so Jon draws away. Martin raises his hand and lets him, only reaching into the coffee table’s drawer to pull out a bright orange feather. He holds it up like a question.

Jon moves so fast he doesn’t realize it until he’s batting at the feather, again and again, mock-growling as Martin pulls it out of reach. 

Finally, he grabs at Martin’s hand, meowing questioningly. He can’t quite make out what Martin says, but the thumb up gesture he makes is clear enough. Jon holds Martin’s hand by the wrist and sets his teeth into the meat beneath his little finger, making ecstatic little noises. It feels so good. He loves how Martin tastes, sweat and the basic scent of him, human and beloved, the give of Martin’s hand as he bites down. 

_Chew toys are a popular autistic stim,_ he remembers reading. With Martin next to him, his presence permeating every one of Jon’s senses, the thought doesn’t sting. It’s just a fact. It doesn’t matter. 

Maybe he could find something to chew that isn’t Martin’s hands. Just for when he’s like this. 

Martin speaks to him, low and tender. Jon rubs Martin’s hand over his cheek until the scritches resume. 

Finally, Jon sits up. “Thank you,” he tells Martin.

Martin smiles at him. “You know it’s my pleasure,” he says simply.

“Not just for that.” Jon rakes a hand through his hair. “For… taking this so well, I suppose.”

Martin shrugs. “What’s to take badly? If you understand yourself better, that's a _good_ thing. To be honest, I’m still not sure why you didn’t just tell me.” 

Jon shuts his eyes. “I didn’t want to be an embarrassment. Especially now, with you getting to know more of your family.”

“Trust me, if they had a problem with you, they’re the ones I’d be ashamed of. Not you,” Martin says. Jon squirms. “What is it?”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t like me,” Jon admits. “I may have overheard some… discussion.” He elaborates. 

For a moment, Martin is quiet. Then he says, “That’s not okay.” His voice is low but intent, heated. ”Them saying that about you, I mean. Especially while you’re still in the house and could hear them. What the hell?”

Jon exhales. “I understand where they’re coming from.”

“I don’t care where they’re coming from,” Martin counters. “If it entails them being pricks to you, fuck ‘em.”

“Martin. Please.” Jon catches his hand. “Not for my sake. I don’t want to be a reason for you to fight with your family.” He takes in Martin’s mulish expression and squeezes his hand. “It’s late. Decision-making can wait until we’ve had a good night’s sleep.” 

“I suppose,” Martin relents. “D’you want the bed, and I’ll take the sofa?” 

Jon finds himself strangely reluctant to let go of Martin’s hand. “We could share, if you liked.”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.” Martin’s smile comes out again, like clouds dissipating.

* * *

A soft chime startles Jon awake. It’s not any of his phone’s noises. What--?

He opens his eyes and recognizes Martin’s ceiling. Oh. Martin himself is next to him, sitting up. When he notices Jon’s awake, he says, “You can go back to sleep,” softly.

There’s something wrong in Martin’s voice, some distress that signals itself clearly to Jon. He sits up. “What happened?”

Martin gives him a rueful smile and shows him his phone. It’s a text from Toby. _You seemed upset when you left last night. Is everything alright?_ “I still have half a mind to yell at him,” Martin says. 

Jon shuffles close. “What’s the other half saying?”

Martin exhales. “Just ignore it. Smooth things over.” 

“Do you think you’ll do that?” Jon asks, holding up Martin’s palm and inspecting it for choice biting locations. 

Martin takes a while to decide, while Jon nibbles delicately on his hand. “Ignoring things hasn’t worked very well for us so far, has it?” Martin says, finally.

“Not terribly much, no.”

“Right. Alright.” Martin stares at the phone with determination. He extricates his hand from Jon’s grasp. After a small pause, he says, “Would you stay here? It’ll help me if I know you’re with me.”

“Of course.” Jon lies back down, curling loosely in Martin’s vicinity, eyes on Martin’s face. 

Martin dials, his jaw set. Jon can hear the dial tone, distant and tinny, and then Toby’s voice when he answers. “Martin, hi!” He sounds genuinely happy.

“Hi.” Martin takes a deep breath. “You were right. I wasn’t okay last night. You’ve done some things which upset me.”

There’s silence on the other end. It seems to stretch forever before Toby says, “We should probably talk about this when I’m not on my way to work.” In the silence of the room, Jon can hear him clearly even without the speakers on. 

“That’s probably for the best, yes.” They discuss hours and days. Martin covers the phone and turns to Jon. “When can you make it?”

“You want me to come?” Jon says, taken aback.

“Not if you don’t want to, but I’d appreciate your presence.”

“Al--” Jon clears his throat. “Alright.” He offers up his schedule. 

“Tomorrow night?” Martin asks. Toby gives assent. “Thank you. See you then.” Martin hangs up and collapses on the bed. 

Cautiously, Jon climbs up over him, laying his head over Martin’s chest, listening to that too-quick heartbeat. 

“We should go to work, too,” Martin says.

“We should,” Jon agrees, but he still stays where he is for a few minutes longer, just until Martin’s pulse is even again.

* * *

Toby greets them into his and Angelica’s flat. They’re led to the living room this time. “Tea?” Toby says. 

Martin hesitates, but shakes his head. “Let’s talk.”

“Alright, then,” Angelica says. She’s sat ramrod straight in the armchair across from them. “Let’s hear it.”

Martin glances at Jon, then lets a breath out. “I suppose I’m not what you expected, as a family member,” he says. “I really do want to get to know you, Toby. But not if you’re going to pick apart everything about me.”

Toby’s eyes widen. “I didn’t!” he protests.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, but you did.” Martin’s voice shakes, but he keeps going. “Asking me why I’m a nurse like I’m some anthropological display, that wasn’t okay.” He takes a breath and looks at Angelica. “Jon overheard you talking after dinner.” She is very still. “I won’t be around people who talk about my boyfriend like that.”

Jon mumbles, “That’s not really the important part.”

“It is to me,” Martin says, but he relents. He says to Angelica, “If my documents were enough for the lawyers to trust, why aren’t they good enough for you?”

Angelica looks him straight in the eye. “I worry for Toby,” she says bluntly. “You literally showed up out of nowhere. Why did Roger never mention you? Why wouldn’t he put your correct name in the will? He tried very hard to reconnect with Toby before he died. Wouldn’t he have done the same for you?”

“He did,” Martin says quietly. Jon whips around to look at him; Martin offers him a weak smile. “It was two years ago, when he just learned he’s sick. He came to me and said he wanted to get to know me better.”

Toby seems fascinated. “And what happened?”

“Turns out he didn’t really want to know me,” Martin says shortly. “He wouldn’t use my name.” His mouth twists. “Or my pronouns. I thought at first maybe I could just live with it, ignore it. I’ve had people call me that name for most of my life, after all. Couldn’t I take it a little bit more, for my father?” He shakes his head sharply. “My friends convinced me not to put up with it. I told him, either you call me by my name, or we don’t talk. He chose the second option.” 

Toby recoils like he’s been struck. Even Angelica flinches. Jon doesn’t think he could move, right now, but he thinks _hug hug hug_ at Martin as hard as he can, as though mentally beaming his support might help.

Maybe it does, because Martin rallies. “I don’t need people in my life who make me feel like trash. If you don’t want me around, just say so.”

“That’s not it,” Toby says, small. “That’s not it at all.”

Angelica exhales. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” Her mouth tightens. “And I’m sorry I contributed. That was not my intention.”

“You need to understand. Our father was….” Toby hesitates. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but he wasn’t a very good father.”

“He was an emotionally abusive piece of shit,” Angelica says. Toby nods sheepishly. “All superficial charm. I liked him at first, I liked him a lot. But then I saw the effect he had on Toby.” They exchange glances, some silent communication. “I won’t go into that, but it was bad. And… I suppose you reminded me of him.”

Martin snorts mirthlessly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Jon holds tightly to the chair’s armrests. If he lets go, he’s worried he might yell. Martin does not deserve to be lumped with his arsehole of a father. 

“That wasn’t okay of me,” Angelica says. “Toby’s a lot like his father, too, but he’s a wonderful person. We can’t help our parents.” She looks at them. “Okay, if we’re talking about things, then cards on the table: I wasn’t comfortable with some of what happened when you came over to dinner, and I’d like to get that out in the open.”

Martin raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment. Jon futilely wishes the ground would swallow him.

Angelica forges on. “When Jon said everything was fine, but didn’t eat, I felt mocked.” She looks at Jon. ”I felt like you were trying to make some commentary on our hospitality.”

“I wasn’t,” Jon whispers. 

Martin holds out his hand to Jon. Grateful, Jon slips his own hand into Martin’s, grasping tightly. “He wasn’t mocking you. He just didn’t have anything he could eat.” 

“I have some unusual food preferences,” Jon says, trying to soften Martin’s words. “People are not always kind about this. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of Martin’s family.” He clears his throat. “I’m afraid I’m very bad at dissembling.” 

Angelica nods, mouth twisting ruefully. “I know how that feels. I’m sorry we gave you food you don’t eat,” she says. “Next time I’ll check the food options with you in advance. Or we could do potluck, or go out.” 

Jon blinks. “Yes. I think that would work.” He pauses, then says, “I know you were upset that I interrupted you, as well.” Angelica nods again. “In addition to being a bad liar, I’m not good at conversational cues.” Martin squeezes his hand. 

To his surprise, Angelica smiles. “You were right, anyway. I looked it up.” 

“We shouldn’t have talked about you like that,” Toby says. “I apologize.” 

Weirdly, Jon is a little glad they did, after all. That way at least he knew what was going on. What do you say when people apologize? _It’s okay?_ But it wasn’t. “I accept the apology,” he says, awkward. 

“I do have some things in common with our dad,” Toby says softly to Martin. “But I don’t want to be the kind of jerk he was. I want to do better.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, a little breathless. “Me too.” 

“So thank you for telling us, so we can do better. And I do want for you to be in my life, and that includes people who are important to you.” Toby nods at Jon.

“Likewise,” Martin says, giving Angelica a lopsided grin. 

Toby leans forward. “Let’s try again?” He extends his hand to Martin, who shakes it with his free hand, and then to Jon, who does the same. 

“If you want,” Jon says, hesitant, “we could go out to eat now. It’s dinner time.”

Toby and Angelica share a glance. “Sure,” she says. 

Toby and Martin smile in tandem, the smile they share; their father’s smile, Jon thinks. Then he thinks better of it. It’s theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- tense family conversation  
> \- biting  
> \- nonsexual pet play  
> \- discussion of transphobia  
> \- some casual transphobia and ableism   
> \- I-statements (as opposed to canon, which has Eye statements)


	6. Chapter 6

“That was nice,” Martin says.

Jon nods, drowsy. They’re both lying in his bed, his head pillowed on Martin’s shoulder. “I hope I conducted myself well.” 

Martin squishes him close. Jon squirms, putting his thumb up where Martin can see it, enjoying the pressure. “You were great. You always are.”

Jon sags into the press of Martin’s body. He’s so tired. “Why am I so bloody tired?” he wonders aloud.

To his surprise, Martin answers him seriously. “Stress can do that. You’ve been trying so hard, with Toby and Angelica. Plus I think keeping the autistic thing from me took a lot out of you. Good thing it’s Friday.”

That does make sense. “I just hope I can fall asleep.” 

“Would the blanket help?”

Jon shifts. He does have his weighted blanket within reach, the one Martin gave him. He’d had trouble using it, though, ever since the party. He confesses this, in a low tone.

Martin considers. “Would it help if I put the blanket on you, and you just had to lie there?”

It would, but, “You’re tired, too,” Jon protests.

“Right. And I’ll rest much better knowing you’re resting, too.” Martin gently detaches from Jon and sits up. “Consider it a placeholder.”

Jon’s eyebrows rise. “For what?”

Even in the dark, he can tell Martin is blushing. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while,” he says. “A scene. We can discuss it tomorrow, if you like.”

“Great,” Jon says, smiling. “Now I’m going to stay up wondering what it is.”

Martin hums, and tucks Jon into the blanket. Under the heavy weight, soon Jon isn’t thinking of anything at all.

* * *

They start the next morning slowly, talking about Martin’s idea over tea. Then Martin goes out to shop for it and to bring some necessary items from his own flat, while Jon stays laid on the sofa, reading advice columns on his phone. Every so often, a message from Martin appears with a photo of something he considers buying, for Jon to approve. 

In the midst of these, Jon gets a message from Mike. It’s a link to a Facebook event for an autistic meetup. 

Jon messages Mike back, _Do you really think I should come?_

_think u shld yeah  
cld help_

Jon considers arguing, but then a message arrives from Martin: he’s done shopping and on his way home. Jon makes a split second decision, messages Mike, _Alright, I’ll come,_ and waits for Martin to arrive.

Once Martin comes back, there’s still a fair bit of preparation to do. “Should I help?” Jon asks.

“Mm. Only if you want to be sure everything I prepare is good for you,” Martin says, washing fruit. “Otherwise, leave it to me. Just relax.”

“Fine, but I’m washing the dishes after,” Jon mumbles, and resumes lying on the sofa. 

Soon Martin is finished, and he places the little bowls of cut fruit over the coffee table. He brings out the rope he’s brought with him, releasing it from its coil and running it through his fingers to check that nothing’s tangled in the fibers. “Alright. Now come here.”

The ties Martin uses on him are simple, familiar: one sleeve tying his arms together in front of him, another one tying his legs, some rope looping around his midsection just for Jon to feel tethered. Jon can just barely walk like this. Martin supports him all the way back to the sofa, where he arranges Jon to sit with his back pressed against Martin’s chest, sitting not in his lap but between his spread feet.

Martin reaches for his bag, and pulls out a sleep mask. “We could give up this part, if you wanted.”

Jon gives it some concentrated thought, then shakes his head. “Let’s do it.”

The fabric of the blindfold is silky against his skin, effectively keeping out vision. Jon inhales, exhales, and lets himself gently collapse into Martin’s solid presence. Words are beginning to slip away from Jon already, but he makes himself say, “Free permission to touch.”

“Thank you,” Martin whispers against his hair. “Now just sit back. Everything’s fine.”

The ropes are a concrete reminder that Martin wants him exactly where he is. Jon doesn’t have to move; couldn’t even if he wanted to. He can’t tell if he can process visual data because he can’t see anything, and that’s how Martin wants it.

Jon shivers and melts just a tiny bit more. 

For some time, Martin holds him, getting Jon used to the position. Then Martin shifts a bit, and Jon smells something sweet and tart.

“Strawberry,” Martin says; a bit unnecessarily, but they agreed that it would be better if Jon was explicitly told what’s on offer. Jon opens his mouth.

In the split-second before Martin puts it in his mouth, Jon remembers Elias, playing similar games with a blindfold. Except Elias never told him what was going to be put in his mouth, and usually this involved some nasty surprises. 

But the strawberry slice is perfect, firm and juicy, a lovely texture to bite into. Nothing unpleasant. Nothing wrong. Jon chews, and swallows, and presses a kiss to Martin’s fingertips. 

Next, Martin offers him a halved grape, sweetness bursting on Jon’s tongue, and a sliver of pear. Jon shakes his head when a chocolate cube is offered, and Martin puts it down and gives him another strawberry instead. The steady stream of bite-sized snacks keeps going, and Jon feels fed in a way that has nothing to do with the filling of his stomach. 

At some point, he realizes Martin is talking.

“It’s tiring, isn’t it?” Martin muses, offering him a pitted cherry. “Having to be on your guard all the time, so nobody hurts you. You deserve to be taken care of, you deserve to let go and know only good things will come to you.”

Jon doesn’t know if he deserves that level of care, but he’s _getting_ it, right this very moment. He rubs his cheek against Martin’s shoulder. 

“Enough?” Martin asks.

Jon nods, but finds the words to say, “Keep holding me?”

“Of course,” Martin says softly. “Of course.”

* * *

The autistic meetup is taking place in somebody’s flat. Jon is grateful that Mike met him at the station: he doubts he would have had the courage to knock if he came by himself. 

Jon isn’t sure what he expects, but it’s just… people. In a variety of genders, ages, and races. Most of them are wearing red, green and yellow colored stickers; Jon blinks, reminded of the physical contact badges in Georgie’s private romps.

“It’s for communication preferences,” Mike says when Jon asks. “Green is anyone can start a conversation, yellow is only if you talked before, red is don’t talk to that person at all.” Jon nods. That’s fairly intuitive.

He hesitates, but takes a green sticker. It’s not like he expects to know anyone here other than Mike.

He’s quite surprised, then, to turn around and run into Gerry Keay.

Gerry flashes him a smile. “Hey.” He’s got a slinky in his hands, in bi flag colors, and he’s bouncing it restlessly. 

Jon finds himself staring at the toy, mesmerized, and only just remembers to say, “Hi,” back. 

“You like it?” Gerry asks, sounding enthused. “I can send you the Etsy link. Or I could send Martin, same difference - they have a whole bunch of flag colors.” 

Jon nods slowly. His attention is diverted by someone next to him, a youngish woman wearing a cord necklace with an orange fish hanging from it. As she listens to another person talk, gesturing with excitement, she absent-mindedly slips the fish into her mouth and chews on it. 

“Is this your first meetup?” Gerry asks. Jon nods, still distracted. “How do you feel about toy show-and-tell?”

Jon frowns. “Isn’t that a bit childish?” he says, with some regret.

“There’s nothing as childish as being worried about looking childish,” Gerry says. “That Narnia prick said so, so it must be true, right? Anyway, I’ve done show-and-tell in a million kink parties, so I’d say that’s a pretty adult activity.”

Mike brightens. “Ooh! I brought my scale-mail glove, it’s neat.”

Jon has to admit that that sounds intriguing. As Mike walks to find it, he looks at Gerry, perched on the sofa’s armrest and bouncing the slinky. “How do you make this look cool?” Jon demands, despite himself, gesturing at Gerry’s hands.

“It was cool all along,” Gerry says, serene. “Secret’s in not giving a shit and having fun.”

“Oh, are we doing show-and-tell?” says a person around Jon’s age, and produces what looks like a set of metal rings. They twist their hand, and [the rings open into an interlocking cage that flows down their arm.](https://happyhands.toys/products/flow-ring-fidget-toy-toroflux-spring-toy) Jon is too distracted by this to answer Gerry properly.

* * *

“So how was it?” Martin asks. When Jon doesn’t answer immediately, Martin waits patiently, playing with a lock of Jon’s hair. 

Jon can’t answer, doesn’t know how to merge, _They felt like home,_ and, _That can’t be me,_ and, _I want to be as happy as some of them were_ into a single coherent thought. Finally, all he says is, “Maybe I should have kept that turtle you gave me, with the sequins. I was the only one there who didn’t have any toys.”

Martin stills. He gently extracts himself from behind Jon. “Wait a minute,” he says.

Jon waits, mystified, as Martin leaves for the bedroom. Five minutes later, Martin is there, carrying that very same turtle. “If you were joking, sorry,” Martin says. “But if you want it, here it is.”

Jon accepts the little toy, speechless. Its weight in his hands is as satisfying as he’d remembered it being. He flips the sequins from green to silver, then back to green. “You kept it?”

“I got it for you,” Martin says simply. “I thought I’d hold on to it in case you wanted it after all.”

Jon grasps for words. “What if I hadn’t?”

Martin shrug. “Then I’d’ve had a spare turtle taking up space in my drawers. I can live with that.” 

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He looks at the sequins, flips them around and shows Martin the resulting pattern. 

“I love you,” Martin says, and Jon crawls to him for a hug. Next to them, the turtle rests on the sofa, the little green heart still shining on its back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:
> 
> \- Nonsexual kink, including bondage, blindfolding and hand-feeding  
> \- Brief memory of abusive kink
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read! Many thanks over to those who commented. <3 <3 <3 
> 
> I don't know if I'll actually write this, but know that in my mind, Jon and Martin will definitely find themselves engaged and owning multiple pets in this 'verse.


End file.
